35 years in the making. Enough is enough. There is luxury to be found here, compared to this place. Now 30 years ago, a yellow stream of hot sauce sprinkled over Mr. Þórsson´s skin as he baked beans out in his garden during a cold Icelandic winter night. Beans taste good in Mr. Þórsson´s mouth and he sure loves to eat them. Eyes turn big, long, useless and glassy as he realizes that no more beans can be found in his house. He shops for more at the local grocery store. People in our community know of him and his art and way of life; he is our very own creature of the night. Of the Icelandic winter night. Last night´s bean fest of horror stuck between the gaps of
yellow calcium mouth rot. He is a man of great talents. As we well know from other
men of great talent, they have been cursed to carry some of the madness and macabre that others have problems dealing with. In Mr. Þórsson´s case, which is no small case mind you, it is the sickness of not being able to sleep at nights. Driving past his
wooden shade late at night, one can see the steam of hot boiling water blowing up into the cold winter night, and every now and then one can hear the loud noise of gun fire as he practices his aiming. He enjoys the great outdoors, all dressed up to go hunting deep in the dark woods of the backdoors.
Often Þórsson puts out his "man tongue" to taste a scent of the air. He sips curry from the wind, turmeric and sage from the dust, deep red cayenne pepper from coldest fog. If you see someone with a tongue several centimeters longer than normal parading the backroads with a rifle propped against one shoulder and bright hand-painted hunting gear, this is our man. You think that the hunting is of the live beast that fills the table of a normal beast killer? His repast, a well-prepared course for the well tempered palate? No, Mr. Þórsson´s job is to cut holes into the sky for us so we may travel the road of destiny! To see the world as Mr. Þórsson you will have to know some of his background and bean greed. Raised on a diet of simple once-a-week prepared food. Mother Þórsson held her dear son by the back of the head and touched his lips every other day with the meal he would receive by the end of the week if he stayed alive.
Arrested for child abuse, mother Þórsson was only trying to stretch her monetary
depletion with simple insight and inventive inventory. The "end of the week" bean would be something that only could be enjoyed by one who would really appreciate it. Father Þórsson mealed himself with spiders and mice that came from the field. His betrothed (they were never married) would have nothing to do with the eating of "souls". She considered anything with two or more eyes to be a lesser human with a chance to occupy heaven where anti-cannibalism would be allowed. Invisible Demons plagued the Þórsson house, driven out with long sticks and eating utensils. Wild swollen-faced creatures stood in the doorway blocking the exit of the cabin. Screaming and loud sounds would only frighten the bean-craving baby; all this, from
protein deficiency and lack of sleep most likely. No neighbors around to suggest the boiling of grass or the trade of beans for potatoes. A spice rack allowed the nostrils to imbibe the "smells of heaven on earth". A weekly dose of these scented spice bottles (most likely empty from ages ago) produced fantastic dreams, and held off the
stomach rumblings, dire life cycle, and despair for another week. A protection from the government allowed him a can of no-label canned beans at age 2. He was removed from the minimal, almost feral world of this "family" place at age 4. Thusly, he is a disturbed man hunting branches in the form of demons to be vanquished, clearing a path for us so we may march in the same direction of this intense evil madness.... The background gives us a look at the result that is the strange bean shopper who is Mr. Þórsson, and his despicable diet. Text by Sigtrygg Berg Sigmarsson